


slide over here, give me a moment

by ShowMeAHero



Series: the altar is my hips [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Big Dick Richie Tozier, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Marijuana, Morning After, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: That afternoon, Richie gets a text from Eddie. He opens it, grinning, just for his face to fall when he reads the actual message.I have to stay late at work,the text reads. The dots appear in the corner to signify Eddie’s typing, before he sends,Rain check on dinner?Richie’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want to come off as a desperate asshole, though, or as some weird clingy lunatic, so he replies,yeah of course! no problem! for sure yeah of course.When he reads it over, it’s overwhelming how he’s pretty much just said “yes” six different frantic ways, but he’s already sent it, so there’s not much he can do.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: the altar is my hips [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599571
Comments: 62
Kudos: 842





	slide over here, give me a moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carasynthias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carasynthias/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Иди же сюда, удели мне время](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25421821) by [Fil_l](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fil_l/pseuds/Fil_l)



> A commission for [_trashmouthed](https://twitter.com/_trashmouthed)!
> 
> Title taken from ["Need You Tonight"](https://genius.com/Inxs-need-you-tonight-lyrics) by INXS.

That afternoon, Richie gets a text from Eddie. He opens it, grinning, just for his face to fall when he reads the actual message.

 **I have to stay late at work,** the text reads. The dots appear in the corner to signify Eddie’s typing, before he sends, **Rain check on dinner?**

Richie’s heart sinks. It’s a Sunday, but Eddie had mentioned that he had a work thing he had to do, before Richie had left his apartment that morning. Eddie had described himself as something of a workaholic, as he’d pulled his blazer on and ushered Richie out of his place. Richie hadn’t thought anything of it, then, but now he’s thinking twice about every interaction between them. He doesn’t want to come off as a desperate asshole, though, or as some weird clingy lunatic, so he replies, _yeah of course! no problem! for sure yeah of course._

When he reads it over, it’s overwhelming how he’s pretty much just said “yes” six different frantic ways, but he’s already sent it, so there’s not much he can do. He stares down at the chat as he gets the notification that Eddie’s viewed the message, and then the bubbles pop up again. They disappear. They come back up. They disappear. Richie’s palms start to sweat.

They pop back up again. Then: **Are you free tomorrow?**

Richie smiles a little bit as he sends back, _yeah i am. is 7 still okay?_

**7 is great. Meet me at my place.**

Richie saves the messages and, that night, before he goes to bed, he looks at them one last time. He feels like a lovestruck romcom protag, but he’s still smiling to himself when he falls asleep.

Eddie texts again the next afternoon, apologizing and asking for another rain check, telling him work was still crazy and he needs to stay late again. Richie starts to get a sinking feeling, but he assures Eddie it’s no problem and they make plans for the next day.

And then it happens again.

Richie tries not to take it personally, but it’s hard when it’s starting to feel a _little_ personal. He’d thought it was different, with Eddie. Or he’d thought Eddie was different, or something. He just had a really good feeling about him.

 **It’s a really busy week at work,** Eddie texts him. Richie looks down at his phone, rocking the case between his hands. After a moment, he sighs, looking up at the television. There’s an old werewolf movie on, but Richie’s not really watching it.

 _no worries,_ Richie replies. He tosses his phone between his hands again before texting back, _dinner tomorrow night?_

 **Yes,** Eddie replies. **7?**

 _your place,_ Richie replies. He hesitates, typing a message once, then deleting it. Twice, then deleting it. He finally sends, _I’m gonna be doing a set at Hash City on Saturday at 9. the place next to Madcap Taproom. if you wanna come._

 **I’ll be there,** Eddie sends back. It’s only Tuesday, so he’s not sure if Eddie will actually show up, but maybe there really _is_ just a crazy work thing and they really _will_ meet up tomorrow and everything’s actually just fine.

The next evening, as Richie’s getting ready to go, Eddie asks for another rain check. This time because of a family emergency, he says. Richie gives the rain check, because he’s a fucking idiot and he wants to believe Eddie, and it’s not like he has some other hot piece of ass lined up. There’s no one to tell him not to let people yank him around, and so he resolves to let Eddie yank him around as much as he’d like.

On Thursday, Eddie asks for _another_ fucking rain check. He doesn’t even give a reason this time. Richie tosses his phone aside on his bed and flops backwards, bouncing on the mattress for a moment. He stares at the ceiling, just for a second. Then, he grabs his pillow and screams into it.

When he’s gotten out the excess buzz of energy prickling across his skin, he abandons his phone and goes to his home office instead. He locks himself in there, sprawls out on the sofa, and smokes pot until he feels like he’s melting.

He gets to thinking, there in his home office. He’s staring at a framed poster of _Wes Craven's New Nightmare_ that he’s got up on the wall, signatures from the cast scrawled across the bottom. Pulling his glasses off, he lets himself sort of zone out staring at one of the signatures, a looping illegible name in silver Sharpie. All he can think about is why Eddie wouldn’t want to see him, a spiral of insecurities that makes him want to cry.

Richie does end up crying, in the end, staring at the silver signature and thinking of all the fucking reasons Eddie wouldn’t want him anymore, because of fucking _course_ he doesn’t.

He gets up and grabs one of his notebooks from his bookshelf. Tapping at the cover with his thumb for a moment, he resigns himself to processing things how he’s always processed things, grabbing a pen and sitting down at his desk.

* * *

On Saturday, Richie shows up at Hash City like he’s supposed to, even though he’s spent the last couple of days writing an entirely new set and wallowing in a swamp of insecurity and anxiety, deep within his home office. He’s pretty confident in the set he’s got; since he’s a regular at Hash City, he gets a whole ten now, and he’s loaded it up with nameless jokes about Eddie.

“So, I’m kind of a hobo,” Richie says, a couple of minutes in. People laugh lightly. “No, it’s fine. I know. But I’m also sort of big and guys get it in their heads that I want to be some powerful top, maybe? I’m really not, though. I can’t even dress myself. Someone put this shirt on me on my train ride here.”

He can’t see who’s out there, in the crowd, because there’s a light catching the corner of his glasses and his astigmatism sends it smearing across his vision so he can’t look out too well. It’s sort of helpful; just hearing laughter makes him feel like he’s doing great. Expressions can sometimes give him doubt; he can be _too_ good, sometimes, at reading dips in emotion and then spiraling out of control about them. He’s especially good on that last part.

“But this guy last weekend, _man,”_ Richie says. “You should’ve _seen_ this guy. He comes up to me in a bar to save me from getting hit on— Not to brag, but I _did_ get hit on last week, thank you, he looked like Owen Wilson and I was _not_ flattered— and just kisses me. Who does that? This isn’t a bit, by the way,” he assures them, “this was fucking real. And he was _hot.”_

Someone laughs a little too hard at that, and Richie squints out into the crowd. “Oh, you think I can’t land a hot guy? You think I’m making this shit up? If I could get the security tapes, my friend, I _would._ I could use a VHS tape porno, I’ve been feeling vintage-y lately.”

He grabs his water bottle, if only to shake out the trembling of his hands for a moment and to help the dry stickiness of his throat. Someone’s still laughing, so he continues, “Yeah, alright, I know, where was— Right, alright, hot guy comes up, plants one on me, _mwah,_ it’s great. Gets me out of a real sticky wicket, whisks me away, starts hitting on me. I get it, I’m big, but we’ll take it. I had just bombed here—”

“We remember!” someone shouts. Richie flips them off; luckily, the guy laughs.

“I’m sure you do,” Richie says. “Is that my Owen Wilson lookalike out there? Quit following me, man, I know I’m dressed like a character in his movies but I can’t help you meet Wes Anderson.”

When there’s a lull, Richie says, _“Anyways,_ if I fucking _may,_ the hobo falls in love with the handsome prince, they kiss, the handsome prince brings the hobo back to his apartment, they touch tips a little bit and everything’s swell.”

Someone whistles; Richie tosses them a thumbs-up, even though he can’t see who it is.

“Thank you very _much,_ yes, I lost my virginity last week,” Richie says. “Everyone’s very proud. I’m thinking of getting the date tattooed on me in Roman numerals, which would be, I think, _very_ tasteful. But I digress— This guy and I, we do what men do when they’re alone, we go our separate ways the next morning— After he makes me a _very_ cute little breakfast, by the way— and we’re supposed to meet up that night.”

Richie sighs, and says, “But he’s got a work thing.”

Someone calls out, “On a Sunday?”

“Yeah, I _know,”_ Richie replies. “I thought the same thing! He said it was normal— Anyways, don’t distract me, I’m trying to be funny. Alright, so he’s got a work thing. Fine. It happens, he’s an adult, we can’t all be slovely wannabe alcoholics in our spare time. But then, Monday? Same deal. Tuesday, I think— Yeah, same thing.”

He takes a drink of water again, then says, “Wednesday was a family emergency. Thursday didn’t even _get_ a reason. Guess he ran out of ways to say, _Richie, for the love of God, it’s called a one-night stand, did you not see every romantic comedy between 1985 and 2012,_ but I heard it loud and clear anyways. We had a connection— Wait, one night stand, _right,_ fuck. I’m still working on that.”

People laugh. It doesn’t feel very funny, but Richie laughs, too. He’s got a whole bunch more stuff, and it’s better than his Eddie stuff, but the Eddie stuff— He just needed to get that out. It’s more a catharsis than anything, for him. He ends on his best stuff, people send him off _really_ laughing, one guy telling him he _fucking killed it,_ and that’s enough to at least propel him energy-wise through the crowd and to the back of the club. All the tables are taken, so he takes a Long Island iced tea for himself from Barbara behind the bar and leans against the wall in the corner, half-listening to the next girl up.

“Hey,” someone says, near Richie’s ear. He turns, because the voice is the right height, but when he looks down, it’s not Eddie. The guy’s still got dark eyes and dark hair, though, just like Eddie, so Richie shifts to entertain him.

“Hey yourself,” Richie replies. “You like the show?”

“Yeah,” the guy says. He’s a little weird, clearly holding back something from Richie, which is _fine._ That makes sense, because they’re strangers, but he and Eddie had clicked so completely that it’s kind of a letdown to not have that anymore. But he’s the one who stopped texting Eddie, and Eddie’s the one who kept postponing, so. It’s over now. “Sorry about all that.”

“Oh, ‘bout what?” Richie asks, taking a sip through his tiny straw. 

“The hot guy ghosting you,” the dude says. Richie sighs, half-shrugging.

“I don’t know, it’s sort of a—”

Richie’s cut off by a hand on his jaw, turning his face with fingertips that press hard into his cheek. His head gets tipped down to see Eddie standing next to him, and Richie opens his mouth to say his name, maybe, or ask _what the fuck?,_ but then Eddie’s hands are threading through Richie’s hair on both sides and tugging his head down. They crash together, Eddie fitting his body up along Richie’s, a hard, warm line as they fall into a kiss. It becomes dirty _fast,_ Eddie pushing into Richie’s mouth and shoving him backwards towards the wall as he goes.

Eddie knocks him into a table, and a bunch of drinks spill, just for Eddie to fully ignore it to kiss Richie again, pressed into the scratched-up plaster. Richie deepens the kiss just to prove that he _can,_ that Eddie’s not off the hook for— for, _yeah,_ fucking ghosting him. The response he gets is more than worth it: Eddie licks behind his teeth, hands sliding down Richie’s chest until he can slip his fingers through his belt loops. He hooks in there and pulls Richie forward, tipping his head back so they can make eye contact. Richie’s blood runs hot and electric through his veins.

“Uhh,” Richie says, eloquently. The table next to them is glaring at them, so Richie clears his throat and finds the jokes, saying, “Sorry, he’s— he’s not well, you know, since the storm—”

Eddie flicks him on the arm, but he’s grinning as he grabs Richie by the wrist and starts to tug him towards the back of the club. Richie waves to the guy he’d been talking to, abandons his mostly-finished drink on a random table, and follows, since he has no choice with Eddie’s fingers a vice-like grip on him.

“You gonna blow me in the bathroom, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie asks. Eddie doesn’t even look back at him, dragging Richie past the bathroom doors and out the back door of the place. The two of them make it into the dark parking lot, and it’s suddenly so silent and chilled that Richie shivers, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I wasn’t lying,” Eddie tells him, before Richie can manage a joke or an innuendo or even another kiss. Richie looks up at him to find Eddie’s big, dark eyes already on him, and Richie’s fucking _fucked._ That guy’s brown eyes inside mean absolutely nothing in the face of Eddie’s, shining in the streetlights, and he’s fucked the guy once. _Once._

“About what?” Richie manages to ask.

“Why I needed to postpone,” Eddie says. _“Postpone,_ not cancel.”

“I know that,” Richie argues defensively.

Eddie motions aggressively at him with sharp movements, his hands flying through the air as he snaps, “Clearly _not,_ Richie, since your whole set was— was self-deprecating jokes about me not liking you. I like you, Richie.”

Richie’s heart starts pounding, so he makes himself laugh. “I like you, too, Eds—”

“Richie, knock it off,” Eddie says sternly. “I’m trying to talk to you here.”

“I don’t know what you want from me!” Richie exclaims. “We fucked once and you didn’t wanna do more, it’s _fine—”_

“Shit came up!” Eddie shouts back.

“I would’ve made the time for you,” Richie comments. “I _did_ make the time for you.”

The two of them stare at each other for a long, long moment. Then, Eddie exhales, running his hands through his hair and turning away. He only paces away a few steps before he turns back and strides right up to Richie, stopping just six inches away from him. His chin’s tipped up, all the lines of his face stern and hard when he’s this aggressively contemplative.

“All the stuff was true,” Eddie says, “because work has been really busy and they asked me to stay late and I said yes, because— I don’t know, I thought, it would give me another day to plan something really nice. But then I didn’t come up with anything on Monday, and they asked me to stay _again,_ and I did, so I could actually come up with something. Then on Tuesday they _made_ me stay, even though I’d found a movie theater that was doing a Two-Dollar Tuesday deal where we could see a Creature Double Feature and that seemed like the sorta thing you’d be into, and I was _going_ to surprise you, but I _couldn’t—”_

“Eddie, _Eddie,”_ Richie tries to interrupt, but Eddie won’t be stopped, pacing back and forth as his hands cut through the air and Richie just attempts to keep up.

“—and then on Wednesday, my mom kept fucking _calling_ me, and I know she’s got this— this _grip_ on me, but it freaked me out, and I didn’t want to dump all _that_ on you, which, too late _now,”_ Eddie says, a frown twisting his face as he glances over at Richie. “And then on Thursday, I— I panicked. I didn’t have anything ready but it had been _days_ and I just— I freaked out. Richie, I’m sorry, but I swear, it’s true. I _swear.”_

Richie studies Eddie’s face for a moment, flushed as he catches his breath. He whistles, and Eddie scowls at him.

“Eddie, I’ve _never_ seen someone do that outside of a cattle auction,” Richie tells him. Eddie lightly punches at his arm, then uses the movement to slide into Richie’s space. It’s less than casual, and the slight smile on Eddie’s face suggests that he knows that, but Richie’s willing to let it go this time. Eddie’s a warm weight all along his side; his hand is a brand where he reaches to pull Richie’s hand from his pocket and tangle their fingers together.

“I really am sorry,” Eddie says. “I know none of that’s a good excuse, but—”

“No, I get it,” Richie tells him. “You should’ve just told me, Eds. You think I go up on stage and tell everyone hot dudes ghost me because I _don’t_ have crippling anxiety? Don’t patronize me, baby.”

Eddie scoffs at him, his smile even wider now as he twists Richie’s collar up in his hand. He shifts so he’s standing directly in front of Richie, his other hand sliding across his chest with a flat palm until he reaches the other side. His hand traces up and over Richie’s shoulder, tugging him down lightly so Richie will stoop down. Eddie makes up the rest of the difference in their height, rolling up onto the balls of his feet to kiss Richie on the cheek, then lean in to catch his lips in a hard, close-mouthed kiss that makes Richie’s knees and shins go numb.

“You are _not_ a hobo,” Eddie murmurs, kissing Richie again. “And I like how you dress because it’s very _you.”_ He pulls Richie down further, falling flat onto his feet and forcing Richie to meet him at his height if he wants to keep kissing.

Richie _very_ much wants to keep kissing.

“I didn’t just like you because you were big,” Eddie says, “even if that was a little part of it.”

“Little part of—”

“Okay, _some,”_ Eddie allows. “But you were also handsome and funny and— I don’t know, you’d looked so miserable and I wanted to make you happy.” He pauses, frowning. Richie straightens up, but he keeps his hands on Eddie, gripping him by the waist. “That was— Sorry. That was a lot.”

“You just watched my set _about_ you,” Richie reminds him. “We’re past _a lot,_ Eds.”

Eddie smiles a little, a quirk tugging the corners of his lips up before he kisses Richie again. When he pulls back, he says, “I think you’re hot, and I like you a lot, Richie. I— Okay, you _can’t_ judge me for this, alright? You said that we’re past _a lot.”_

“Lay it on me, Eddie,” Richie tells him. Eddie only hesitates for a beat, looking away and frowning a little bit, his brow furrowing as he looks at the pavement.

“I took— Okay, I don’t use a lot of my PTO, so I told my boss I’m taking the next few days off,” Eddie says. Richie grins down at him, his heart thumping up into his throat as Eddie tells him, “Whichever days you’re free, I’m free. For sure. I’m not answering my mom’s calls and now I know you’re _also_ a mess of anxiety, so. We can do this.”

“We can do this,” Richie repeats.

“Which days are you free?” Eddie asks.

“All of them,” Richie tells him, ducking back down to cup Eddie’s face in his hands and kiss him hard. Eddie responds in kind, yanking Richie in by the belt loops so their hips grind together, the half-hard lines of their cocks meeting through layers of fabric. Richie can’t help but groan, an open-mouthed fugitive of a sound escaping into Eddie’s throat. Eddie devours him for it, kissing him so hard Richie feels like his mouth might be literally _bruised,_ which he remembers reading about in the old smutty romance books at the library when he was a kid, wherever he’d been a kid.

“I want you to fuck me,” Eddie says. Richie’s brain whites out, and Eddie has to separate them before Richie drops to his knees and eats Eddie’s ass out then and there. Eddie drags Richie out to the front of the building and, this time, Richie calls the Lyft, in the interest of fairness and also in the hopes that he’d be more comfortable in his home space.

It barely ends up mattering, because Eddie all but hauls him through his own front door and Richie has to direct him to his bedroom before Eddie loses his entire mind about it. Eddie directs him to get lube out of his bag and, when Richie goes to get a condom out of his bedside table, just so it’s ready and he doesn’t have to dig for it later, Eddie grabs his wrist.

“If you— Uhh,” Eddie says, then stops. His face is all flushed, hot across his cheeks and spreading down the line of his throat. Richie wants to fucking _drink_ him. “I’m— Okay, in the interest of— full disclosure and this honesty thing we’ve got going here, Richie, I— I want you to cum inside of me.”

Richie stares down at Eddie, feeling like his brain is so filled with static he could be used as a stand-in in _Poltergeist._ When he finally manages to piece the English language back together, it’s been a beat, and Eddie’s starting to look a little nervous.

“Please,” Eddie finishes, then stops. “Only if you want to. I’d just— I’d like to. If you’re—”

“Yup, I am,” Richie cuts him off. “Sorry, I forgot how to breathe and I think I briefly traveled through space and time. But I’m good now, I’m here, give me your ass so I can cum inside of it, please—”

“Shut _up,”_ Eddie says, laughing as Richie climbs up onto the bed and drags Eddie closer by the hips. He’s still grinning when Richie ducks his head down and kisses him, his hands going to Eddie’s shirt to unbutton it swiftly and yank it back off his arms. Eddie pushes Richie back, stripping off his own undershirt and motioning for Richie to do the same, and so Richie stands off the bed and takes his clothes off faster than he’s ever done anything in his life. That includes when he’d lost his _actual_ virginity, which he doesn’t even really remember all that well— but he makes jokes about it anyways, because he’s Richie Tozier and he’s got a job to do, and that’s _be Richie Tozier at all times,_ weird repressed virginity jokes and all.

Eddie’s naked in record speed, too, and Richie can’t get his hands on his skin fast enough. He ducks his head down to kiss Eddie’s chest, biting right next to his nipple to make Eddie gasp, his back arching up off the bed. Richie takes the opportunity to grip Eddie by the waist and flip him around onto his belly, blanketing Eddie with his body. Eddie’s small enough and his shoulders thin enough that Richie covers him completely— Or, _or,_ Richie’s a really big guy with insanely broad shoulders, which he _has_ been told before. Hence the jokes.

“I like how big you are,” Eddie says with a rough voice, like he can read Richie’s fucking _mind._ “I don’t know if you think it’s a bad thing, but I’m fucking— I’m so fucking turned on by—”

Richie twists Eddie’s hair around his fingers and pulls him in for a kiss, their faces nearly pressed together into the mattress. He pulls back, sitting up behind Eddie with a knee on either side of his thighs. He looks at him like that for a second, Eddie’s face pillowed on his arms, just sprawled out on his chest. It’s almost how Eddie slept last time.

This time, though, Richie takes Eddie by the hips and pulls him up until his ass is in the air, his forehead pressed into Richie’s mattress in between his forearms as he positions himself comfortably on his elbows and his knees. Richie kisses the line of Eddie’s spine as he uncaps the lube and spreads it over his fingers, warming it and coating his hand as he makes it to the small of Eddie’s back. He bites there, and Eddie moans, his back arching down this time.

Richie holds Eddie’s hip in place with his dry hand while he traces Eddie’s rim with one lubed fingertip. Eddie whimpers, so Richie pushes in, just to the first knuckle, and _slow,_ because he’s already incredibly hard between his legs, and the way Eddie had said, _“I like you a lot, Richie,”_ in the parking lot keeps playing on a loop in his head. He pushes in to the second knuckle, massaging Eddie’s tight muscles in small, smooth circles until he finally starts to relax. He starts to melt, muscles dripping apart as Richie slips his middle finger in beside his index, the velvet heat wrapping around his touch as he takes his time working Eddie open.

Eddie’s fully relaxed once Richie’s got his two fingers in to his palm, so he pulls out to slip his ring finger in, too, and Eddie _moans,_ debauched, nearly muffled by the mattress.

“Let me hear you,” Richie tells him. “You can say whatever you want, Eds, I wanna hear it. You don’t have to keep anything from me. I like-like you, remember?”

He punctuates this by twisting his fingers and brushing the very tips of them against Eddie’s prostate, but Eddie jerks anyways, pushing back onto Richie’s hand. Richie has to still him with the hand still gripping his hip.

“I like-like you,” Eddie says back, but his voice is so masculine and gruff and sex-fucked that the fact that those playground words are coming out of his mouth just makes Richie smile. He pulls his three fingers out so he can slick up his cock, but then he’s climbing back over Eddie, unable to stay away for too long. Eddie’s skin is like a fucking _drug,_ the sweat and sounds that make him up becoming like oxygen to Richie, in this moment with him.

Richie puts one hand on Eddie’s hip but, after a beat, he lets the other one slip down his spine, until he’s in the same position Eddie is, bent over him so he can press their cheeks together and just breathe, for a moment. Eddie nearly disappears beneath him, Richie’s so much bigger than him; it makes Richie’s chest ache with the need to give Eddie whatever he wants, and Eddie’s made it _very_ clear he wants Richie to cum in his ass, and so cum in Eddie’s ass he shall. He’s like a genie or a fairy godmother, but for cumdumping, he thinks. He briefly wonders if that’s a good enough joke to make it to a set, if Eddie would even let him, but then Eddie forces his attention span back into place by kissing him softly.

“Let’s fucking go,” Eddie says, in spite of his gentle touch. Richie can’t help but smile and kiss Eddie on the nose before he gets up again and lines himself up with Eddie’s hole. He has to guide the head past Eddie’s tight rim, helping to push it through until Eddie relaxes again and the head of Richie’s cock is enveloped inside of Eddie. They both catch their breath, for a moment, and then Richie slips in another inch, then another.

Eddie fucking falls _apart_ under him, and Richie reminds him that he can say and do whatever he wants, and Eddie fucking takes the ball and _runs_ with it.

“Fucking shit, you feel so fucking good,” Eddie mumbles into the mattress. He inhales sharply, when Richie pushes in a little deeper, and then he’s talking again, saying, “Holy fuck, holy _fuck,_ I can’t— Richie, your dick is fucking— It’s— You should’ve— _Fuck,”_ Eddie gasps, as Richie pushes in further. “You should’ve known I wasn’t ghosting you because I’d never leave your fucking cock, _fuck—”_

“You’re just saying that,” Richie says stupidly. He’s only halfway inside, and Eddie’s shaking apart, trembling like a leaf as Richie pushes in another inch.

“Fucking _not,”_ Eddie mutters. “Fat fucking chance, I thought about you every day this week, just wanted to fucking— Just wanted you— Oh, fuck, Richie, come _on—”_

“You sound like a whore again,” Richie says. “I’m starting to wonder—”

 _“Richie,”_ Eddie says, voice rough and rasping out of his throat, and he pushes his own hips back, rolling them and drawing a shuddering whimper out of Richie’s mouth. Not one to be undone, especially when _Eddie’s_ the one he’s actively trying to undo, Richie carefully and firmly pushes in the rest of the way until he’s completely filling Eddie, their hips flush, Richie’s thumbs close enough to brush against his own belly when he leans over Eddie.

“You good, Spaghetti Man?” Richie asks, and Eddie huffs a laugh, waving a hand back. He shifts, pushing his face into his left wrist, and then nods jerkily.

“Yeah, I’m good, I’m—” Eddie exhales slowly, then says, “Okay, go.”

Richie feels like a fucking Russian sleeper agent and his activation words are _okay, go,_ because something instinctive and feral takes over in him when he hears them. He takes Eddie’s hips in both of his huge hands, holds him tightly in place and fucks hard into him.

“You’re so fucking tight, _fuck,”_ Richie says, letting the first words that roll through his head come rattling roughly out of his mouth. “Oh, fuck, you just— Look at you, you’re so fucking responsive, I just want you to fucking—”

“Richie, fuck, _fucking—_ Okay, th—” Eddie’s hands fist in the sheets, his face burrowing into the mattress as deep as he can dig it in, a muffled keening sound getting hidden by the bed. Richie wishes he could’ve pulled Eddie’s head up to hear it properly.

“What’d you say?” Richie asks, keeping his pace steady on that same spot that was unraveling Eddie from the inside out.

 _“There,”_ Eddie manages, and so Richie fucks him _there,_ grinding along his prostate as he fucks Eddie hard enough that he pushes him up the mattress. Eddie’s hand shoots out, palm flat against the headboard to stop Richie from braining him with it on accident, and it makes Richie feel harder, somehow, heat looping through him like a physical ache, and he groans so loud he’s surprised he doesn’t hear a fucking police siren outside.

Richie reaches around Eddie, because he can’t fucking stand the thought of nobody giving Eddie’s cock the attention he deserves. He wraps his lube-slick fingers around his dick, jerks him hard in time with his thrusts, covering Eddie with his body and holding him tight, his hand fucking him on one side while Richie fucks into him on the other. Every side and sound is Richie, and every sensation and slide of skin is Eddie.

“I’m so fucking close,” Eddie gasps, and so Richie finds his prostate properly again and focuses on hitting it _every_ time he drove on, stroking Eddie once, again, again, _again,_ and then Eddie’s coming apart, spilling over Richie’s fist and his sheets and a couple of his pillowcases, where they’ve slipped down and out of place. Eddie gasps through it, Richie’s name tangled up in expletives and whimpered moans, but then he says, “Richie, fucking— Keep going, keep—”

“But you—”

“I still want you to cum inside me, _please,”_ Eddie asks, nearly _begs,_ and Richie can’t fucking say no to _that._ He pulls out of Eddie entirely, listens to him gasp and hiss through the sensations as Richie jerks himself once, then twice, lube and Eddie’s cum slipping over his cock. He lines back up and pushes back in, finding a new brutal pace and sticking to it, fucking into Eddie and finding his prostate just to see, just to _see_ if it’ll work, and Eddie starts fucking _moaning._

“You can go twice, can’t you?” Richie asks, incredulous at his fucking _luck._ “You can. Motherfucker, Eddie. A Russian nesting doll of sex surprises.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’ve never done it before,” Eddie tells him, all a mush of words slipping out of his mouth, and _that’s_ the hottest thing Richie’s ever heard in his life. It’s especially hot because it’s fucking _true;_ when Richie reaches around Eddie again, he’s half-hard. Richie’s hand on him helps, and Richie can feel Eddie filling out in his hand, his cock getting thicker and longer and _harder,_ steel overlaid with velvet, between his long fingers and his sweaty palm. “Fucking _move,_ Richie—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie apologizes, breathless, and then finds Eddie’s prostate again, fucking in slow and deep, his own cock throbbing almost painfully as he tries to hold out as long as he can. He has to let go of Eddie’s cock, eventually, because he can’t get a good enough angle the way he’s positioned over him like that. Instead, Richie pulls back and takes Eddie’s hips in his, fucking him hard while Eddie’s hands fist in the sheets so hard he pulls them out from under the corners of the mattress, tugging them up underneath him.

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, and then moans, loud and helpless and so fucking _horny_ that Richie slams into him and cums on the _spot,_ so hard his vision blacks out and he keeps fucking into him on instinct. He hasn’t jerked off at all all week, too anxious and freaked out to do anything while he waited for Eddie and too excited for potential dates to cum too close to one and fuck himself over later in their night together.

He doesn’t have to worry about that now, but it means it feels like he cums for-fucking-ever, filling Eddie until cum starts to drip out a little bit alongside Richie’s cock, slipping in a thin stream down the inside of Eddie’s right thigh, and Richie shudders. He reaches down, slips his fingers between them to trace the line with a fingertip.

“What’s that?” Eddie asks, rough and flushed.

“You’re— It’s already coming out,” Richie tells him, and Eddie jerks forward, muffling a nearly-incoherent shout of Richie’s name in the mattress and the bunched-up sheets under his face and hands. Richie’s stunned, for a moment, before he grins, sex-stupid and regular-dumb. “You fucking— Did you just cum untouched? Did you j—”

“Shut up, shut _up,_ yes, let me enjoy it,” Eddie mutters into the mattress. Richie kisses his back, anywhere he can reach, and then gingerly pulls out, ignoring the chain of expletives Eddie spits back at him as he does it. He’s not a Boy Scout like Eddie, so he’s not all prepared with baby wipes in his bedside table, but he goes down the hall and gets a washcloth to wash Eddie off in bed so he doesn’t even have to move. He does end up having to roll Eddie to one side, then the other, in order to strip off the sheets Eddie came all over.

The only thing Eddie won’t let Richie do is go anywhere near his ass with the washcloth. His face is all flushed and blotchy with sweaty red, bleeding down his chest, and Richie says, “I— Are you sure? You said you were kind of a neat freak, so I figured—”

“No, I—” Eddie says, turning onto his back and scooting up so he can sit. Richie doesn’t give a shit about his sheets; hell, it’s _his_ fucking cum. His sheets have seen that before in spades. He just figured Eddie wouldn’t want it, and he wants Eddie to have what he wants. “I think— I don’t know, I’m— That’s part of why I like it, I don’t know, it’s so fucking— It’s dirty, but it’s _you,_ so I just—” He exhales roughly, then scrubs at his face with the heels of his hands. “It sounds stupid. Never mind, fuck.”

“No, it makes sense,” Richie assures him. He tosses the washcloth in the direction of his hamper and flicks off the lights, pulling Eddie into his side. He remembers, belatedly, that he should’ve asked if Eddie wanted to stay, but Eddie burrows into his side and doesn’t move, so Richie takes that as confirmation. After a beat, he leans over the edge of the bed and grabs his boxer-briefs, passing them over to Eddie. “Put those on, it’ll keep it all in longer.”

Eddie flushes dark, and it’s so fucking pretty that Richie has to kiss him and tell him that while Eddie argues that he’s _not_ pretty, indignant to the last. Richie pulls him in and kisses the top of his head as Eddie wriggles into Richie’s underwear and settles back in against him, yawning.

“Will you stay?” Richie asks anyways, because he’s still anxious about this.

“Yeah, I took PTO,” Eddie reminds him.

“Until when?”

“Thursday.”

“Then stay until Thursday,” Richie asks, nuzzling into Eddie’s hair, pulling him up to kiss his temple. Eddie laughs, tugging Richie’s glasses off and folding them up for him, pressing a kiss to his chest in return before depositing Richie’s glasses on the nightstand and taking his place against Richie’s chest again. He’s asleep in minutes, and Richie’s not far after, the best sleep he’s had in a week.

* * *

Richie’s feeling blessed as hell (even though it’s probably negated by the language in the very thought itself) when Eddie’s still in bed with him the next morning. He only watches him sleep for a few minutes, the two of them still tangled together. It’s only then that he gently separates them and sneaks out to the kitchen.

He’s too giddy, and his attention span is a mess. He’s usually pretty good at cooking, but he burns most of it and undercooks the rest; when Eddie comes out into Richie’s kitchen, his hair a mess and his face still sleep-lined, Richie does not feel he’s done his best work.

“I really tried,” Richie tells him. “Bon appétit.”

Eddie smiles and kisses Richie for it, even though he takes two bites of the horrible breakfast and insists they go out to eat instead. They shower slow and dress slower, until they give up on pretense and make out on Richie’s couch until Eddie has to pull back.

“I’m hungry,” Eddie tells him. Richie grins and slaps him on the ass, pushing him up and off his lap so he’ll stand. “I meant what I said yesterday, by the way. Also. I just wanted that to be extremely fucking clear so you don’t make another set about me.”

Richie huffs a laugh, tugging his jacket on, but he says, “Yeah, alright, Spaghetti Man.”

“I _mean_ it,” Eddie says firmly. “I really was busy and I let myself get into my own head and I don’t want to do that again. I want more than that with you, I wanna do better than that.”

Richie grins, taking Eddie’s face between his hands and ducking to kiss him before he says, “Me fucking too, Eddie Spaghetti. I’m gonna be so good for you, just you wait.”

“Not _too_ good,” Eddie hedges, “I hope.” A smile lights up his face, once he says it, and that just blows Richie’s insides up, a sunstar going supernova in his lungs. He suddenly can’t get enough, kissing Eddie all over his face, on his nose, on his cheek, laughing when Eddie swats at him and laughs himself, squirming away from him. Richie catches him by the waist and kisses him again.

“No, not _too_ good,” Richie says. “A little bad, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Eddie agrees, smiling at Richie and kissing him again, again, _again._

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) come chat with me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicolelianesolo) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/). I'm currently taking commissions there, as well!


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